


Meanwhile, she's knitting.

by lizzledpink



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Shenanigans, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:23:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzledpink/pseuds/lizzledpink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider is completely and utterly prepared for the inevitably passive-aggressive war. Clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meanwhile, she's knitting.

> Reader: Be the cool kid.

You are now the cool kid.

Meanwhile, she’s knitting.

You’re sitting in your chair, not entirely sure what you’re doing. You just felt like sitting. It’s tough work being the chill cat of the household that you are, and sometimes you just need to sit back and think about things, even if it’s only ironically.

Which is why the fact that your ectobiosister is knitting is a problem.

Because she can’t just knit. When she knits, she _knits._  I mean she sits her whole body down and stabs at those needles like she’s trying to hit the right beat and jazz up a hip new rhyme, but she’s not rhyming. She’s just… clacking. Knit one pearl two or whatever that shit is; you don’t even _know_  but the very sound of it is driving you insane.

Slow…ly.

You shut your eyes, gripping the arms of your chair.

This isn’t fair, you think to yourself. You’re the cool kid. You’re used to straight out fights. You’re used to stepping out to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, katana in hand, just in case you see a flash of shades and the inevitable puppet - your big brother is _always_  watching.

You really do need to figure out why she keeps giggling when you say that.

And by she, of course, you mean the she-devil across the room, still clacking away.

It’s a good thing she can’t see behind your shades. Maybe then she’d witness the masked fury, the rage. She seems to have forgotten the whole saving-the-world-apocalypse deal, but you haven’t. It still burns in you. 

But no. You sit back. Cool off. Maybe even sip some tea, with no small amount of irony poured in. For a moment you think about grabbing a newspaper and pretending to read, but that’s just taking it a bit too far.

Just because she’s more used to this passive-aggressive guerilla warfare, doesn’t mean you can’t play.

It just means you have to sit here. 

Trying to think, but not really.

Suffering through this _clicking._

And you can’t get up, of course. That would mean she’d won.

Your only choice is to sit. Maybe if you sit passive-aggressively enough, she’ll take the hint and quit her knitting for something more suitable. Or quieter. You’ll settle for quieter.

She could even start writing and it’d be preferable at this point.

Click. Scrape.

You don’t mean writing. You mean her fanfiction. She can write about the adventures of gay wizards - sorry, bisexual darkmages - all she likes. She can even do it in the same room as you, though you wouldn’t touch that abomination with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole. She could do that and it’d be better than the knitting.

At this point you deserve an award for being such a patient brothertwinslimething. Really.

Your knuckles have begun to whiten. You consciously force your hands to relax. Your mouth remains in its unruffled state. You are serene. You cannot be disturbed. You will not succumb -

Clack.

OH GOD IS SHE TRYING TO KILL YOU.

You can’t help it, you flinch. You don’t think she saw, but you keep absolutely still. At this point, she’s won, but you can’t let her know it. The only safe tactic is a rapid withdrawal of all troops. But not too rapid. The trick is to make it look not like a retreat, but a fit of boredom. You’re simply too awesome to even deal with her any more. It’s her fault for not entertaining you adequately.

That should work.

You start with an arm. You slide it off the armchair, and quickly chance a glance - nothing. She’s still working away.

What is she making, anyway? That is the ugliest scarf you have ever seen. And three times longer than the entire length of her body. You can’t even use a scarf that long and you’d trip over it instantly when faced with the need for puppet-fu. Ridiculous.

And unimportant. Back to the task at hand. Mission: Escape.

Cautiously, you slide the other arm off the armchair. Still no reaction. You’re in the clear.

One foot slides to the ground, and then another, and that’s when she looks up. Fuck.

“Going somewhere?”

“Thirsty,” you blurt out. It’s the first thing you could think of. It’s also true. You might yet survive this encounter.

She raises an eyebrow. This is the decision - does she recognise your loss? Will she see through your clever ploy?

In a moment, she looks back down and continues with the next stripe.

Crisis averted. Of course. As if she could ever outsmart you. Never even in question.

Tilting your chin up, you walk out of the room. Not run. Back up, that step was a little too long. _There_  we go. Perfect. You’re already at the edge of the carpet, and soon, to the door itself.

Before you leave, you look back.

She’s still knitting, none the wiser.

Behind your shades, you narrow your eyes. She may have won this battle, but the war goes on.

Devious witchgirl.

:::

> Dave: Be the devious witchgirl.

You are now the devious witchgirl.

What? No, you’re not. That’s a stupid title. That’s something Strider would think of, not you.

You smirk over your knitting needles, and carry on.

==>


End file.
